


The Heterodoxy of Generosity

by Byacolate



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 02:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9101347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: Nobody would accuse Jack Morrison of being festive.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Commissioned by an anonymous Tumblr user as a holiday gift, who wanted a Gift of the Magi sort of situation.

Holidays can be… tricky.

 

They’re conspicuous, is what they are. Everyone seems to notice when you bow out and disappear between late December and early January. Never is it more clear, more obvious that you have something to hide than when you hide it in the weeks surrounding the new year.

 

So they celebrate a little early. Once, in late October, when the Hong Kong heat still made lounging around the apartment without air conditioning unbearable. Once, in early January, but not too early - certainly not the first of the year. But it had been close, and Widowmaker had managed to add a couple of bottles of discounted duty free champagne to their alcohol stash.

 

“I’m thinking late November, this year,” Jack says in the middle of May, poking at his stinky tofu with a toothpick. Widowmaker flicks through her calendar as she nibbles on a stick of grilled squid. Jack’s not the most comfortable like this, in the middle of a bustling market with his back open to the flux and flow of Kowloon locals and tourists alike. It helps, only a little, to know that he has a sniper’s eyes across from him at any given moment.  
  
“How late?” she asks, glancing up beneath the broad rim of her sunhat.

 

“Late.”

 

“You’re American,” she muses, gesturing at him with her stick of squid. “Do you not have a holiday around this time?”

 

“Sure do.”

 

“Would this not raise suspicion? With the cowboy, at least.”

 

He shrugs. “I’m old enough to gripe a little. Tell ‘em I’m taking a short leave to eat my turkey on the sunny shores of Cancun.”

 

“And what would my fabrication be?”

 

Jack pokes the cube of tofu through and stuffs it all into his mouth in one bite, foregoing the little plastic cup of hot sauce. “You’ll think of something.”

 

She smirks and spears one of his tofu cubes with her stick, dunking it liberally in the bright red sauce. “Perhaps I will tell them I’m off to hunt turkey myself.”

 

“Your superior officer suddenly dust off that old sense of humor?”

 

“Did he ever have one?”

 

Jack smirks. “You’d be surprised.”

 

The heat is still offensive, less sweltering as the sun goes down behind the rooftops. Widowmaker finds herself a tall cup of blueberry milk tea that matches her skin tone almost exactly as they make their way from the hustle and bustle of the busiest streets. Jack fiddles with the key fob in his pocket. Swerves deftly to avoid a running child. Rests the pads of his fingers at the small of her back.

 

“So. Late November?”

 

Widowmaker hums around her giant orange straw.

 

“I will make the preparations with Auntie.”

 

“Good.” He nudges the brim of her hat. “I’ll pick out the tree.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They’ve never exchanged gifts before - not in the traditional holiday sense. Neither Widowmaker nor Soldier: 76 are particularly festive at heart. Whoever John Morrison and Amelie Lacroix might have been without the armor of who they are today is pure speculation at this point, so late in their lives.

 

That is not to say they have never given gifts before - a little alcohol here, a pair of thermal stockings there - but nothing so formal as a good old fashioned sit down gift exchange.

 

But it’s the holiday season, and this year, Jack is feeling festive.

 

He finds the tree after a couple days of groundwork in late November, several days before Widowmaker arrives. It’s a small one - the leaves are synthetic and pine scented, and several little lights like dewdrops glow all along the needles and branches. The shop owner insists it’s solar powered as he runs down the list of all the rest of the things it can do. There are several motion sensors on it that react to proximity with a variety of Cantonese phrases, and one heavily accented, “Happy Holidays!”

 

It’s cheesy and flashy and obnoxious as hell. Jack loves it.

 

Jack _hates_ to love it. And he knows Widowmaker will love to hate it.

 

Wrapping paper is much easier to find in a vast array of cheesy and sleek and gaudy variety. For once he buys actual souvenirs for his comrades, rather than impersonal airport goods, all along his search for a decent gift for Widowmaker. Food, .he knows, will do pretty much everyone on base - cutesy snacks for some, spicy for others, downright bizarre for the rest. He knows a little something about all of them to know what they’d probably almost definitely like in a food gift.

 

They’ll call him sweet for it. Soft. Someone will make the inevitable dad joke, and he’ll just have bear it.

 

For Widowmaker, the perfect gift eludes him.

 

It eludes him so well that he feels Grinch fingers claw at his brain, grumbling about capitalist sentiments and the fabricated necessity of a singular perfect gift even as he paws his way through every single shopping center the MTR bisects.

 

And still, despite all his searching, he comes up empty handed. Nothing - not a damn thing calls to him as something singularly, specially perfect for the Widowmaker. It’s a bitch and a half to shop for someone who wants for nothing? Or worse, can get anything she likes with a card, couple clever words, or the well-timed flash of a rifle.

 

As far as Jack is concerned, the Perfect Gift does not exist for this damnable woman in all of Hong Kong.

 

So he finds her an assortment of perfectly suitable gifts instead.

 

He wraps them all neatly, with uniform precision, and plants them under the tree with a carefully fabricated air of normalcy. All the while, the tree’s glow brightens and dims with cheerful flickers, bursting with festive Cantonese.

 

She arrives a scant day later with an extra bag and a skeptical expression aimed right at the tree in the corner of the living room. She’s too far for the motion sensors to pick her up, and Jack’s busy in the kitchen trying to find a good place for the damn rice cooker Auntie always, always pointedly sets out on the counter before they arrive.

 

“The tree looks…” she starts, clearly still shifting modes from Talon to Airline Patron to Somewhat Less Antagonistic Roommate.

 

Jack smirks. “Go on.”

 

“Small?”

 

He laughs a little, stowing the rice cooker away on a high shelf before he stops himself, remembers Auntie’s height, and forces himself to stash it below the sink. “That’s not all it is. Trust me.”

 

Confusion turns to playful suspicion as she sets her bags down by the table and joins him in the kitchenette. “What surprises await me with this tree, Morrison?”

 

Jack keeps his voice pleasantly, pointedly nonchalant. “Oh, you know. Plenty. Maybe you should go and see for yourself.”

 

“Later,” she hums, and draws her fingertips under his chin - a few cool, smooth pinpoint glides of pressure - and tips his face up. Obligingly, he kisses her.

 

“So.” He fishes a bottle of duty free eggnog he’d picked up in the States from the fridge, and the brandy from the liquor cupboard. It’s a bit early in the day for a drink - his phone reads just past four - but he’s feeling festive. “What’s in the bag?”

 

She rebuffs his offer of holiday ’nog like a true European.

 

“Your gift,” she says, and throws a look toward the tree. A little frown draws her eyebrows together, her pretty lips pursed. “I did not realize yours would be so... formal.”

 

“Lemme see,” he says, and she hands him the plastic airport gift shop bag. Jack whistles a long low note; from within he pulls probably the priciest bottle of whiskey he’s ever seen. And he has seen it before, walked by the brand in a display case any number of times. It’s the sort of fine liquor for businessmen, for the well to do. For very, very special occasions.

 

Jack feels his smirk go lopsided.

 

“Let’s crack it open tonight.”

 

“Immediately?” To his amusement, she wrinkles her nose.

 

“What? That some sort of faux pas?” He rotates the bottle to read the back. “Want me to put it on the shelf to be admired ’n’ collect dust?”

 

“A little reservation would not go amiss, no. But perhaps I should not expect so much from you.”

 

“Now, mademoiselle,” he teases. “You know I ain’t a rich man.”

 

“And clearly, age has not refined you, either,” she sighs. Jack sets the bottle down on the table like a centerpiece, like some kind of bouquet, maybe a little just to be an ass.

 

“I don’t think you’d have liked me half so much if I wasn’t a bit rough around the edges.”

 

“A _bit?”_

 

“Yeah, a _bit_.” He plops down into one of the chairs, boozy eggnog in hand and lifts it toward her. “Thanks for the whiskey. We’ll enjoy that.”

 

It’s a big damn gift. He feels a little underwhelmed by how own selection sitting under the tree, waiting for her perusal.

 

If he didn’t know better, he’d say the look she throws the tree is a little worried as well.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“That one’s your favorite, huh.”

 

Widowmaker lounges with her head pillowed on his lap, deftly manoeuvring the puzzle’s hundred threads with quick fingers above her face.  

 

“I suppose you could say that,” she allows. With a shift of her wrist, the amethyst bead bracelet he’d found in a Thai jewelry shop slips down, the golden flower-shaped clasp reflecting the dim ceiling light. Semi-precious stones and hand puzzle toys for kids - of all the little things he’d left for her under the tree, it is these that have clearly made an impression.

 

The lollipop stick shifts to the other side of her mouth and it’s clear by the sudden, violent twist of her expression that she’s licked through the mild honey candy and tongued the sour plum nestled inside.

 

“This is atrocious,” she hisses, teeth grit, but still she leaves it in her mouth, grimacing the whole while.

 

“Bit of local flavor.”

 

“I hope you do not expect me to embrace such a bitter part of culture.”

 

Jack cards a hand through her long ponytail, toying with the weight of it in his fingers. “I don’t think _embracing_ is what you’re supposed to do with most food.”

 

“I won’t hear anymore cheek from you until this taste is out of my mouth,” she mutters, but still she sucks at the sour plum.

 

She scrubs it furiously out of her teeth not very long later, and returns minty fresh if a little disgruntled. She smells like the soap he’d wrapped under the tree - the subtle tang of ginger clings to her skin as she reaches up to his face, pinches his chin.

 

“How am I to trust you with sweets again?”

 

Jack grins, sliding a hand up her flank as she settles herself back in his lap. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

She kisses him and tastes like toothpaste, any sugar or plum chased clean away by a toothbrush and a grim sense of determination. He knows he probably tastes like the fifth brandy nog he’s nursed that evening, Widowmaker’s gift still lying pristine and unopened on the table.

 

Jack’s a little warm, a little floaty, and if Widowmaker’s of a mind for intricate hand puzzles, he figures she’s not nearly on his level enough.

 

He leans back a little, stalling her kisses with a smirk. “What do you say we crack open the menace looming at us over the table.”

 

She sighs, her minty fresh breath a fan over his face. “Go on,” she allows. “Indulge yourself.”

 

But the truth of the matter is, he’d really rather be indulging her.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They part ways late the first week of December, the closest to the actual Holidays he thinks they’ve ever been. He goes first, tipping a cap down over his head as they part ways at the taxi.

 

“Next year, I’m thinkin’ December.”

 

The look in her golden eyes is bemused, and she tosses his duffel into the back. “You are getting ahead of yourself by a year.”

 

“It’s nearly Christmas. I’m allowed to get a little hopeful.”

 

The Widowmaker tips his cap down just enough to cover his eyes, and pulls him in by the brim for a quick peck on the lips. “As you say, Farmboy.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Jack means it, he does. He’s going to make it work. And in the interim, he has one full calendar year to find the Widowmaker her One Perfect Gift.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

It hits him in early February, in the middle of a skirmish between his team and Reaper’s. He can’t see the Widowmaker, but he knows she’s there, knows she knows he knows she’s there, and all he can think about is her gaze through the scope of that rifle.

 

It’s the rifle. Of course it’s the rifle.

 

But it’s not like he can get her a new one, he thinks as he ducks and weaves around a black claw swiping at his visor - a better one than Talon’s custom make would be nearly impossible for him to procure now that he’s back on Overwatch’s books, and most definitely impossible to do without unwanted attention from the higher ups.

 

Jack swings the butt of his gun toward Reaper’s head, but the jackass dissipates into dark mist before he can make contact. He doubts she would want a new rifle, anyway. No, he doesn’t need to find her a new gun. But something to spruce it up, maybe - an upgrade.

 

But who would have enough insider knowledge about the Widowmaker’s custom rifle to make Jack’s flight of fancy a reality? No one in Overwatch - not yet, anyway. Asking Winston to hack Talon’s system for this information in particular wouldn’t do anyone any favors.

 

So... Talon, then. Jack grimaces behind his visor at the very idea of coming to anyone in Talon for information. Makes him feel dirty - feels justifiably like treason. It can’t be Reaper. He’s sure to know, of course, but there’s just no way he’s going to show his hand to his old partner, who would have been insufferable back in his most genial days. Jack can’t imagine what he’d do with the information of Jack and Widowmaker’s relationship now that he’s the same cranky old son of a bitch that knocks Jack’s knees out from under him and sends him sprawling on the floor.

 

“Get up, old man,” Reaper growls, pointing two pistols directly at Jack’s chest.

 

“I’m gettin’, I’m gettin’.” Jack grunts and rocks his entire weight onto his shoulders before propelling himself up onto his feet in a crouch. From there, he dives at Reaper, solidly connecting shoulder to stomach and sending them both careening to the floor.

 

Scrapping on the floor of some dank warehouse at the foot of the Andes with his old partner is a bit nostalgic, truth be told. He grinds Reaper’s forearm to the floor with his elbow, wrenching the pistol from his claws when he hears - faintly - a very familiar voice.

 

The comm has come to life in Reaper’s ear, so very close to Jack’s, and through it he can hear the sharp tone of the Widowmaker’s voice. He can’t make out the individual words, but he knows the click of the tongue he hears below Reaper’s mask - that’s the Sound the Retreat Tut, the one he only ever gets when someone calls a retreat during a battle he thinks he can win.

 

“Hey there,” Jack says, gripping at Reaper’s wrist and fully aware that the Widowmaker can hear him.

 

“Enough playtime,” Reaper grunts, and with a new wellspring of force, he throws Jack to the side and promptly melts into the floor. He’s just a wispy mass of darkness, slithering like a ghost, like an eel over the floor, over pallets and boxes, up the wall and out a high window.

 

In Jack’s comm, McCree and Dr. Zhou confirm the retreat of their own disappearing Talon detail. Jack rolls his shoulder and shoots off his own confirmation.

 

“Reaper got away. I’m in the warehouse, coordinates -”

 

“Yeah, yeah, we got you on the sat nav, Hoss. Be there in two shakes.”

 

“Civilians secured,” Zaryanova’s voice comes through the comm link. In the background of her feed and clearer through its own, Mei sighs.

 

“Maybe too secure.”

 

“Hah! Yes, this is true. Mei and I will free the civilians in the village. We will reach your position in ten minutes.” The sound of snapping cord cracks through the comm link. “Ah. Maybe sooner.”

 

“Is anyone in need of assistance?” Zenyatta’s voice resonates, smooth as anything, to a chorus of nagatories. “That is good to hear.”

 

And it is, Jack has to agree. A mission without injury is almost unheard of. He stops himself along that particular line of thinking before he jinxes himself and takes stock of his own person.

 

All his gear is intact, pulse rifle a little scuffed from all the times he’s had to use it as a blunt force weapon when the ammo ran out. Nothing he can’t smooth out on the jet back to base. His best jacket is ripped all to hell by tussling on the floor like a goddamn whelp, by claws and bullets and one nasty hook that glanced him on the wall.

 

“My jacket didn’t survive,” he grumbles to himself, “so that’s one casualty.”

 

Even so, as glum as he is about the patching up he’s going to have to do back at base, Jack can’t help but feel a little pleased with himself for… for putting himself on the right track, at the very least. If knowing is half the battle, then an idea… a _good_ idea… well, it’s got to count for something, doesn’t it?

 

Now he’s just got to get himself a little more informed. Find himself an informant. From Talon.

 

This… probably won’t go well.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

Jack tries to bring it up as subtly as he’s able when they get together again in June. It’s been ages since their last getaway, but things had been pretty busy for the both of them. They were lucky to have been able to set a meager week aside now, but Jack’s been running on dry in his glances over Talon operatives and where he might possible have a foothold for information. He supposes it might just be easiest to dig directly at the source.

 

“Why are you so interested in my rifle?” the Widowmaker asks, peeling a pistachio with her thumbnails. Jack watches her shuck the nut and toss the shell into the garbage can.

 

“Who wouldn’t be? It’s a damn fine piece.”

 

“Hmm. That it is.”

 

She narrows her eyes, scrutinizing whatever she can find on his face. Jack aims for openness, raising his eyebrows, lips twitching toward a smile. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

 

“As though I do not already know everything of importance about,” she waves a salty hand, “what you are packing.”

 

“Oh, clever. That’s a good one.”

 

“I thought so.”  


It’s early enough in the day - early afternoon sunlight pouring through the open window, filtered through a subtle shield barrier. They will probably make evening plans - Jack’s had his eye on a touristy boat ride and tour. He’d hate to love it, and she’d love to hate it - their specialty.

 

“Do you mind if I… take a look at it?”

 

She gives him a weird look, like she’s not really sure how to process the question. Which is fair - he’d probably feel a little conflicted if she asked the same, seemingly out of the blue. He raises both hands. “I can swear on my grave that I won’t use whatever I find to sabotage you in a combat scenario.”

 

“Your empty grave, you mean.”

 

“Well, it’s empty for now. One day it’ll mean something.”

 

Her rifle sits in its case, resting propped against the living room wall, and Jack gives it a meaningful look. The Widowmaker sighs and flicks her fingers in its direction. “Fine, fine. I will indulge you.”

 

Jack doesn’t need any more of an invitation than that. He slides off of the sofa and sits cross legged in front of the case, fiddling with its many latches and clasps. There’s a combination lock too, and he lets her unlock that herself; he gets it. There are some passcodes he’d hesitate to give her, too.

 

When the last latch finally pops open, Jack opens the case with the reverence due such a weapon. It’s a fine piece, sleek and well maintained. The barrel is pristine, the body curved perfectly to suit her, and the scope… The scope is probably the most impressive piece of the pie. He fiddles around with it until he finds the activation key, and watches the scope quickly climb to maximum power, zero to 100 in a couple split seconds.

 

He wonders, briefly, what kind of power - what kind of finagling it would take to shave that time off even further. If such a thing was even possible.

 

A little lightbulb flickers to life in Jack’s head, and he pretends to test the weight and balance to keep up the facade of checking her piece out.

 

“So, what is your verdict,” she drones when he lowers the gun back into its case. Jack methodically begins to snap everything back into place.

 

“She’s really something, I’ll give her that.”

 

“It.” The Widowmaker flicks a pistachio shell into the trash. “It is a thing, not a woman.”

 

Jack wrests the bag from her lap and takes a fistful of pistachios for himself, reclining heavily against her on the sofa. The very picture of nonchalance, Jack cracks open a small handful of nuts and pops them all into his mouth at once. “Ever think about… I don’t know, upgrading?”

 

“My rifle?”

 

“Well, yeah.”

 

She scoffs. “My state of the art, custom made rifle? You joke.”

 

“What, you sayin’ there isn’t a single improvement that could be made on it?”

 

“If there were, you would not be privy to that information, Soldier: 76.”

 

“Huh. Touche.”

 

It _is_ a little disappointing that she won’t divulge, but Jack gets it. And furthermore… Jack’s got just about everything he needs.

 

(He hopes.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I hear you’ve got a problem.”

 

Jack jerks away from his closet door, reaching for a weapon that just isn’t there. On the monitor of his computer, a cheery purple skull appears. Jack dives for the terminal, making to power it off. The button is unresponsive. Typical.

 

“Ah ah! Jumpy, aren’t you.” The purple skull disappears and Sombra wiggles her fingers at him in a dark room on the other side of the screen. Jack ducks down to unplug the machine from the wall… and promptly remembers that the connecting wires are fed through the wall for Athena’s personal maintenance. Also typical.

 

“Ugh. I can feel those beautiful little fingers of your AI crawling at my system already. We don’t have much time, Jackie.”

 

“Get out of my terminal, Sombra.”

 

She tuts, drawing her lips up in an exaggerated pout. Bubblegum pink today. Her motif has apparently changed now to Pepto Bismol and eggshell white. She’s even popped blue contacts in. If it’s not an aesthetic choice, someone should walk her through the discretion aspect of a disguise. But that’s Reaper’s job, not his. “Now, Jack,” she says. “I’m only here to help.”

 

“Athena?” Jack says to the room at large. No response - nothing verbal, but the lights do flicker. Sombra clicks her tongue again.

 

“My dramatic exit is almost here. You’re making this _very_ difficult. Look - I know what you need. For the big girl, right?”

 

Jack’s heart nearly stops in his chest.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking ab-”

 

“We don’t have time for this back and forth, remember?” Sombra’s image flickers across the screen, and she taps away at an unseen keyboard until the image rights itself. “You need me. You know you do. Unless you’re going to find an upgrade yourself?”

 

Jack grips the side of the desk, the cogs in his brain whirring a mile a minute. She rolls her eyes and mutters something to herself in Spanish before gesturing fluidly, vaguely with a gloved hand. “Clock is ticking, Soldier boy.”

 

“What could you possibly have to offer me?” he asks, instead of what he should say, which is something more along the vein of _fuck off_. Who knows who could be tapped into this conversation? He’s in his goddamn base of operations..

 

“I might know a guy,” she says, and leans back, fingers steepled. A purple grin stretches too wide behind those fingers to be hidden. “And by that, of course, I mean I definitely know a guy. I know many guys, all of which could be _very_ helpful to your situation.”

 

“Yeah, listen, whatever _help_ you think you’re offering -”

 

“Did I say helpful? I mean crucial.” Sombra twists her hand through the air with a villainous flourish. “To do what you’re trying to do will require the cooperation of several parties, each and every one of them accessible and negotiable exclusively by yours truly. Which… ah yes, I can tell by the look on your face, you already knew this. So!”

 

She leans forward again, and inexplicably, Jack feels the urge to lean back. “So,” he prompts gruffly. Though Sombra’s smile never wavers, her eyes do narrow.

 

“Are you interested John?”

 

Jack twitches a little, and the screen begins to flicker, the familiar flow of Athena’s script fighting to recover his terminal. “Tick tock tick tock...”

 

With a growl, Jack bites out, “Yeah, I’m interested.”

 

It’s hard to tell through all the interference, but Jack could swear he sees her smile grow. “I’ll hit you with the details,” her cheery voice manages as she wiggles her fingers and succumbs to Athena’s defensive surge.

 

“Soldier: 76,” Athena’s voice rings out, and behind it Winston’s frantic, “Jack? Jack, are you there?”

 

“Yeah, I’m here,” he responds, and Winston’s face pops up on his monitor, concern and relief prominent in his features. He sighs, ducking his head.

 

“Thank goodness.” Winston pushes his glasses back up as he raises his head, focus turning to other parts of his own monitor. “We have several defense protocols in place for hacks like these - I don’t know what happened.” He looks… embarrassed? “We couldn’t tap into your feed, but Athena believes the contact to be communicative in nature.”

 

“Not all hacks are malicious by nature,” Athena says. Winston looks skeptical.

 

“Was someone trying to contact you, Jack?”

 

Jack weighs his options like he’s rolling around a real bitter hard candy over his tongue. “Yeah,” he finally says. Winston’s great brow furrows. “Aside from the breach itself, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. This was… personal in nature.”

 

“I see.” Winston doesn’t look like that’s the case, more baffled than before, but he seems to let it go for now. Jack finds himself grateful. “Athena and I are going to do a few sweeps, get anything… lingering… out of the system. Jack...” His discomfort shows plainly on his face. “I _am_ going to need you to detail this uh… personal communication in a report.”

 

Jack almost cracks and shares his grimace. But he gets it - Winston has several roles here at the new Overwatch Headquarters, shared with ones Jack had once upon a time. One of them is _protector_. “Copy that. I’ll brief you here in the next half hour,” Jack says, recalculating his mental schedule for the next few hours. He supposes he can do without overseeing the combat training of the newest recruits… and subsequently being goaded into joining the combat training of the newest recruits.

 

Winston already looks distracted, his eyes flicking around his many screens. “Thanks! We’ll be ready for you.” And he disconnects the call.

 

At thirty minutes on the dot, Jack gives his report, in both as much and as little detail as possible. Could Jack identify the hacker? Yes. Could he confirm the hacker as Talon agent Sombra? Yes. Was she seeking intel on the newly reformed Overwatch and any of its members? Only one: Soldier: 76.

 

“The nature of our… conversation… has no impact on any of your agents, Winston,” Jack says, the tone of his voice too gruff to be mistaken for comforting. Still, Winston looks to be on the verge of relief, even as he looks Jack over with a healthy amount of concern.

 

“ _You’re_ one of our agents, Jack,” he reminds him. The old sap. A corner of Jack’s mouth turns up.

 

“All that peanut butter’s turned you sweet.”

 

Winston ducks his head when he laughs, abashed, and it’s enough to turn the subject back on task.

 

Once the report is done, Jack fills his day as he normally would - with training, being shoehorned into group activities, accompanying Hana Song on a supply run on the island. It isn’t until much, much later, when he’s showered and settled in, when the initial panic on Athena’s servers has died down, when the system is on alert but no longer searching through all electronic effects - both company property and personal - that Sombra makes contact.

 

Jack’s dozing when the light in the room shifts - where there was once total darkness, now a flash of light bleeds through the room. The tactical visor on his desk shines like a beacon of red, silently waiting. Jack shoves himself out of bed with a grumble and a sigh. There’s just about nothing in this world more irritating than hackers getting their tricky little fingers into his gear.

 

He lifts the tactical visor and straps it to his face, grumbling, “I hate it when you do this.”

 

Through the feed, he hears a giggle. “Your sweet talk could use some work, _soldado_. Now. Let’s get down to business…”

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 

Sombra’s lips - acid green this time, sitting across the table from him in a little coffee shop in Istanbul - form a little moue before the act falls apart and they stretch into a full smirk.

 

“Please, Mister Soldier. I hardly joke about things like this.” She delicately taps the data chip in the center of the table with one long green talon of a nail. “You and I both know that I can get you exactly what you need. You don’t have much to offer _me_ , not something easily yours to give, but... I’ll take a little toy for my troubles instead. These are my terms. Do you accept them?”

 

Jack doesn’t even remove his mask to take a drink from his steaming cup before he snatches up the chip and stalks his way toward the door.

 

“Pleasure doing business with you!” she calls behind him. He wisely chooses not to respond.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

Jack anticipates waiting for a handful of months before Sombra comes through. He certainly doesn’t anticipate a sullen-looking Omnic pulling him aside on his next supply run, not one full moon cycle after Turkey.

 

Los Muertos symbols are engraved on the Omnic’s skin like tattoos, clearly visible the way they lean against the wall beside the automatic doors of the supermarkey, but they don’t rise to the bait of Jack’s tense body language, or the way he positions himself firmly between the Omnic and an accompanying Lúcio. Instead, they wordlessly hold out a box the size of a fist, wrapped in purple.

 

A violet, pinkish, bluish ombre sort of purple.

 

Before his cheerful companion takes note, Jack takes the box and slips it into his pocket. “You’ve got a long trip back,” he notes as the Omnic straightens up to leave. “Try not to kill any innocents on the way.”

 

He’s treated to a couple vulgar gestures thrown with each metallic hand before Jack ducks into the colmado. His pockets just a little bit heavier, but despite it - or because of it - his heart is a little bit lighter.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

The little old auntie has hung mistletoe over their doorway.

 

Jack knows it was her; it had to be her, because he can not, could not in a million years imagine the Widowmaker pinning a sprig of mistletoe over the doorstep. He grins and shakes his head before he unlocks the door and pushes his way into the apartment.

 

“Hey,” he says to the flat at large, toeing off his shoes. Widowmaker’s response comes from the bedroom, somewhat muffled and distracted. Jack puts his things down and moves toward the kitchen when he hears a jolly burst of Cantonese, and an even more fervent string of French curses. Curiosity piqued, Jack pauses the beginning of his kitchen check.

 

“What are you up to in there?” he calls, sweeping the cabinets and drawers for both surveillance bugs and provisions.

 

“What does it sound like,” she says back, grumbled only just loud enough for him to hear. Then she hisses, “Shut up, you silly thing,” and stalks from the bedroom with the Christmas tree bundled in her arms. It chirps another phrase at him when he enters its sights, and she curls up her lip, all but stuffing it into the corner of the room. Jack can’t fight back the grin that spreads over his face until he’s laughing outright.

 

“I hope you two aren’t fighting.”

 

The look she gives him is patently unimpressed.

 

“Our quarrel is no concern of yours.”

 

She dusts off her hands and returns to the bedroom while Jack is still methodically going through each and every drawer.

 

He’s just giving the perimeter of the refrigerator a final pat down when she returns from the bedroom with a long white box in her arms.

 

“What have you got there,” Jack grunts, pushing himself up from a squat. The Widowmaker sets the box on the counter top and slides the lid off, revealing a long row of shiny matte ornaments in gold, each one small - roughly the size of a plum, nestled in soft snow white fabric.

 

“The tree was… somewhat bare, last year,” she says, appraising her bounty with a critical eye. “I thought perhaps we might... “

 

Jack lifts a golden bulb, reminded of Zenyatta’s orbs for the barest moment before he rotates it in his palm. On the other side, in white paint, a very souvenir-esque panorama of the Hong Kong skyline.

 

“You found these at the airport, huh?” he asks. The Widowmaker clicks her tongue, shutting the box with a snap.

 

“But of course. Where else would I shop? Come, I have already swept the apartment. You will approach the chatty monstrosity first.”

 

Despite her assurances, he finishes his own sweep of the place and showers off the funk of international flights before he joins her on the floor in front of the cheerful tree. She’s busy pressing through a series of buttons along the base that Jack couldn’t make heads or tails of the first time he’d fiddled with the damn thing the year before. Each press of the button flickers through a different setting of lights - some with patterns, some along rows mimicking a string of fairy lights, blinking or softly dimming, some cascading down like a trickling stream of magical light.

 

Now if only they could do something about that incessant Cantonese crowing.

 

“Would you look at that. You’re a regular tech wizard.”

 

“I am,” she agrees, and switches through to the next light setting, where the tree glows starkly white with little bursts of gold. Then, “Do not insult me.”

 

“What, with tech wizard?”

 

Her lip curls in hyperbolic disgust. “If you must, call me... a grand conductor.”

 

“Of technology?”

 

She flicks through. The next setting glistens so subtly, it may as well be morning dew. “A grand conductor of the of an electronic symphony.”

 

When she waves her hand with a grand flourish, the tree chimes in with festive Cantonese.

 

“Huh,” Jack grins. “And there’s your magnum opus.”

 

When she finally picks a light setting she likes - a slow and steady downward trickle of silver lights - they try to evenly space the ornaments around their tiny tree. The light from the tree glows on the matte surface, and it’s… well, it’s real pretty.

 

“Good choice,” Jack says, cocking his head to the side. She makes a small, contented noise of agreement.

 

They deviate from the norm and accompany one another down to the auntie’s shop, and they’re greeted warmly by the woman. Her daughter, too, has come to visit, on break from school in England, though the family doesn’t celebrate Christmas themselves. She spends the evening flustered under the Widowmaker’s attention, serving them quickly and then disappearing from sight after Widowmaker looks in her direction for too long. Jack grins because he really, definitely gets it.

 

Auntie presses an apple into each of their palms as they leave the shop, and they take a walk along the busy streets of Kowloon. He eats his apple, and part of hers, and they dump the cores on the way back.

 

Jack saves his gift until the closest they can possibly inch toward Christmas; on the 23rd, the night before he’s due to return to Gibraltar, Jack approaches her on the sofa.

 

“Hey,” he says, catching her attention from the film on TV. It seems to be a guide to learning Cantonese, which is pretty damn smart; Jack knows next to nothing, and his Mandarin is rusty, too.

 

Widowmaker raises an eyebrow when Jack fishes the box out of his pocket - purple, unwrapped and then wrapped again in paper a little more innocuous than a gift wrapped so clearly in Sombra’s colors. Now it’s a good old classic red, tied off with a golden bow as best he could. It looks… well, it looks more like a well practiced military knot, but you do what you know.

 

Her yellow eyes flicker up to meet his from the gift, the bow of her lips twitching upward. “I had wondered if we would be exchanging gifts this year,” she says like a confession, and plucks the box from his hand. She doesn’t rattle it, or try to discern what it is from the outside alone. She carefully unties the golden knot, and slides her nails under the tape to pull it apart. A meticulous gift opener. Jack should have guessed.

 

When she sets the wrapping paper aside and pops open the lid, the Widowmaker frowns down at the contents, puzzled. With her nails, she lifts a data chip, no bigger than a thumb nail, and glances over at Jack.

 

“What is this?” she asks, rotating it under the dim light. Jack can feel the beat of his heart jolt, just for a moment. He settles himself on the couch beside her, boozed up nog in hand.

 

“Your present.”

 

“Very cute. Try again.”

 

“Well.” He resettles himself in a way he knows is fidgety. He’s _fidgeting._ Deliberately, Jack takes a drink and holds himself still. “It’s a little upgrade for your rifle.”

 

The look she gives him is so flat, it might as well be Kansas. Jack can’t exactly backpedal in this situation, so he valiantly presses on. “It’s an incredible piece of work, but I just noticed that the charge for your ultimate power takes nearly two seconds. It ain’t bad, but I thought, you know. Could be better. So…” he gestures toward the chip with his drink. “This happened. Should shave that time off to exactly point forty-five seconds. Couldn’t go any lower, not safely, but you’ll notice the difference in combat straight away.”

 

The Widowmaker stands, without a word, and retreats into the bedroom. The furrows in Jack’s brow dip lower as he listens to her rummaging through the closet. She returns not a moment later, plopping back down in her spot without even a hint of her usual grace. Caged within the tight curl of her fingers is… another very small box.

 

“How did you learn the schematics for my rifle?” she asks, eyes narrowed. “You could not possibly have learned so much from looking it over so briefly. You are not a firearm expert.”

 

“Well, you’re right there.” He scratches at the back of his neck, the scrape of his shorn hair against his nails almost too loud in the strangely quiet room. “No, I had to… talk to some people.”

 

“Which people?”

 

Jack frowns. “Is it importa-”

 

“Do not play the fool with me. Who did you speak to?”

 

The most baffling part about this strange scene, he thinks, is that despite her words and bizarre urgency, the Widowmaker doesn’t seem… upset. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. He can’t quite hone in on exactly what she’s feeling or thinking. This is a play Jack doesn’t know how to make without reading his team of one.

 

With a little sigh, he admits, “Uh. Sombra. We sorta… made a deal.”

 

She leans back a little, one delicately arched eyebrow raised. “Soldier: 76 negotiates with terrorists.”

 

“That’s… really probably not something to joke about.”

 

“Is it a joke?”

 

He takes a big gulp from his cup, which is considerably lighter now. “I was just haggling for your present, is all. I didn’t have a lot of options, and she knew it. She had the upper hand.”

 

“She always has the upper hand,” the Widowmaker murmurs, glancing down at the box in her hand. She slowly shakes her head and sighs before glancing back up at him. “What did you have to offer her in exchange?”

 

“Now, hold on,” he says, wishing now his hands were free so he could cross his arms. “That really isn’t important, and now we’re veering into tricky territory. Just accept the damn upgrade and let’s -”

 

“Jack.” She tilts her head forward like she’s waiting for a secret. “What did you exchange for this upgrade?”

 

He doesn’t want to tell her. He considers, briefly, just lying about it - leaving it up to mystery. But that’s not what they’re about, and that’s not who he is. He’s a real bad goddamn liar anyway. Jack breathes out through his nose, rubbing at the faintest hint of stubble on his jaw.

 

“I might have… given her a little unfettered access to some tech.”

 

She narrows her eyes, scrutiny coming over him in waves. “You would not divulge the secrets of Overwatch to an agent of Talon. Whatever you offered must have been personal.”

 

She’s got his number there. Jack shrugs.

 

“Yeah I, uh… I gave her access to my, uh. My tactical visor.”

 

The Widowmaker won’t stop staring at him. Her expression is still inscrutable, but at the very least, she doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t even look shocked. How she looks is bewildered.

 

Slowly, she extends the box in her hand to him. He takes it wordlessly and undoes the simple gold ribbon tied around a brown cardboard box. Inside, he finds… a chip. Smaller even than the one he gave Widowmaker. He picks it up with all the delicacy he can muster, and glances her way, eyebrows raised.

 

Looking him dead in the eye, she says, _“_ _That_ is a state of the art advanced security firewall system designed exclusively for your tactical visor to make it unhackable.”

 

Jack shifts his stare between the chip and Widowmaker. “The same visor,” he says slowly, “that I promised to Sombra.” Then, with a jolt, “What did you have to pay for this?”

 

If he didn’t know better, Jack would say that one of her eyes actually twitches.

 

“For this,” she says, teeth clenched, “I traded my rifle. To an elite group of hackers who have their own personal grudge against Sombra.”

 

“You…”

 

“I can always get another gun,” she scoffs, waving a hand. “I am an exemplary agent. If Talon does not understand the occasional necessity of relinquishing a weapon, Reaper certainly will.”

 

Jack… Jack can’t help himself. He starts to laugh, closing his fist ever so gently around the chip before he slips it back in the box and places the lid back on top. He tosses back the rest of the drink and sets everything onto the floor - including the Widowmaker’s useless gift - and drags her in close.

 

“Hey,” he says, settling under the weight of her as she moves with him, pressing him down until he’s laying flat on his back on the sofa. “Are we idiots?”

 

“Hmm.” The Widowmaker draws her nails down his chest, long hair falling over a shoulder as she cocks her head to the side in contemplation. “At least one of us may be.”

 

“The weakest link in the chain, and all,” he laughs - grunts when her weight shifts over his gut briefly to lift the sweater up over her head. She tosses it over the back of the couch and starts to unbutton his shirt as well.

 

“Is it not unseemly to speak of chains so close to Christmas?”

 

He huffs out a laugh, nearly breathless for the weight she has on his gut. “Probably, if you care about that sort of thing.”

 

Her smile seems almost soft in the silver light of the tree. “Clearly, you do not.”

 

“Yeah, not so much, no,” he agrees, and then, “get down here.” And she does.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It isn’t cold in the apartment, but they certainly don’t take everything off as Widowmaker rolls her hips down against him, the waistband of Jack’s sweatpants snug under his balls. The silken slide of her panties against him as she rocks has him panting, hips twitching under his poor restraint. He wants to bury himself inside her, and of course she wants to tease.

 

He looks down to watch black satin framed with lace sliding up and down the length of him, the dark red head of his cock weeping for it. He clamps a hand over her thigh, hissing when she rotates her hips just so.

 

“I’m gonna go nuts if you keep this up,” he tells her hoarsely, glancing up toward her face. She hangs her head, dark hair slipping down the slope of a shoulder to fan over Jack’s chest as she moves.

 

She glances up, yellow eyes dark. “Good.”

 

When he slips his thumb under the waistband of her panties, the Widowmaker tuts him, gives his hand a gentle slap to send it away. Jack’s head falls back onto the arm of the sofa, resigning himself to his fate.

 

And then suddenly, the weight of her lifts for just a moment, and she’s taking him in hand, guiding him -

 

He looks up again as he feels the tip of his dick press inside her, and his jaw drops just a little. Of course she hasn’t stripped herself of the panties - she’s merely pushed the lacy crotch of them aside to get him inside her.

 

“Christ almighty,” Jack groans, rolling his hips up. She maintains her balance with a hand pressed to his sternum, and the motion punches a throaty laugh from her. “That’s a damn good look on you, you know that?”

 

“Everything is a good look on me,” she purrs, shifting her own hips against his. He grabs her waist and bends at the knees, lifting himself up at the hips to grind up and up and up into her, indulging himself for a moment before she arches her back, eyelashes fluttering. Soft noises fall from her lips, and eventually she pats his chest. “Down, boy,” she breathes, and he reluctantly lowers his hips, relinquishing control again.

 

She kisses him then, the dark curtain of her hair a cool, smooth sensation over his arm, his shoulder, his chest as she shifts against him, clenching around his cock, reaching back to roll his balls in her palm. “Shit,” he grunts into her mouth, and she smiles.

 

“That’s no way to speak to a lady on her throne.”

 

He comes first, which doesn’t happen often, but he’ll call it a holiday miracle. In recompense, the clock strikes midnight as he carries her to bed. The closest Jack Morrison has ever felt to festive is with his head between her thighs, slinging one of her legs up over his shoulder for better leverage.

 

The motion, of course, prompts a burst of cheerful Cantonese that nearly sends them both toppling over the couch in surprise.

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Tumblr: [wardencommando](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).  
> Battle.net ID: byacolate#1589


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